Almost Dead

by Lisa Jackson

  “Oh, excuse me. Let me run upstairs and change,” she said with an edge.

  He laughed, and Cissy, who’d tried for sarcasm, found herself melting a bit. Damn the man.

  Coco, slower than she once was, hopped awkwardly downstairs. Realizing there was an interloper in the house, she began to bark wildly at Jack in her high-pitched yip, growling and snarling at him as if he were a murderous intruder. Tanya, uncertain which way to jump, said quickly, “I’ll go get B.J.,” then hurried off to the living room.

  Too late. Beej, who had been playing with a toy that made animal noises upon pressing a button, had already realized his father was home. He’d just hit the cow button, and the room echoed with a loud “Mmmmooooo” as he, squealing in delight, let out the predictable “Dad-dee home!” Like a rocket, he was on his little feet and scrambling to greet his father with uplifted arms.

  “Hey, big guy! Glad to see you’re over your bad mood.” Jack hooked his coat over the curled iron arm of the hall tree, then grabbed his eager son and lifted him into the air. An eruption of giggles and “More! More! I want more!” came flying out along with wiggling legs and arms.

  The dog was in a froth.

  “Coco, hush!” Cissy snapped.

  The terrier didn’t listen. As Cissy stepped into the foyer, the little beast hid behind her legs and kept up the racket.

  “Miserable little rat-dog,” Tanya muttered under her breath as she gathered up her things. “I guess B.J.’s in good hands already, so I’d better go.” She found her raincoat and umbrella at the hall tree and with one eye on the furious little white terrier said reluctantly, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “See you then,” Cissy said, though she was already mentally replacing Tanya with someone who was nonallergic and animal-friendly.

  Jack and B.J. had moved into the living room and were playing with the animal-sounds toy together. A cacophony of braying, growling, roaring, bleating, and peeping was erupting, one noise after the other, as if Noah had just dumped the contents of his ark in their living room. “Hey, how about this one,” Jack said, seated cross-legged on the floor with his son on his lap. He pressed a button and a loud “woof, woof, woof” echoed through the rooms.

  “Doggy!” Beej said. “Like Coco!”

  “Just like Coco,” Jack agreed, though the recorded dog bark sounded more like an eighty-pound German Shepherd than a tiny terrier mix.

  It was utter chaos, and Cissy, filled with conflicting emotions, detached herself a bit. Through the window, and in the gathering dusk, she watched Tanya climb into her battered Subaru, light a cigarette, then take off, red taillights disappearing around a corner farther down the street.

  Yeah, she was overdue for a new guardian for her child.

  A lion’s roar reverberated through the house. “Does that thing have a volume control?” she asked.

  “We like it loud.”

  Cissy walked to a side chair and dropped into it. B.J. was delighted to be with his father. Of course. Was he more “into” Jack since he’d moved out? Had her son already missed his father? Guilt gnawed a big hole in her heart. She hated being the bad guy, and if she looked at it from her eighteen-month-old’s eyes, she was. She’d kicked Dad-dee out.

  “So,” she said when the roar had died down for a second, “you came back here for a reason?”

  As an elephant trumpeted, Jack said, “I wanted to see that you and B.J. were okay.”

  “We are.” She clasped her hands between her knees and noticed that it was already getting dark. Too late for the stroller. “But even if you were coming here after work, you’re early. It’s not even five.”

  “Well, I do have an ulterior motive.”

  “This should be good.”

  “Actually, it is.” He looked up at her, his expression serious. “I didn’t think you’d want to face my family alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They want to stop by and offer their support. All of them. Dad, J.J., and Jannelle.”

  “You’re kidding!” She couldn’t imagine facing any members of the Five Jays, as they referred to themselves, based on their same first initials. “No way. I don’t want any company.”

  “I told them that, but you know how Dad is when he gets an idea in his head.”

  “Then stand up to him, Jack. Man up! I do not want to deal with any member of your family, much less all of…oh damn!” She saw headlights flash against the living room window. “Too late,” she said as a snake hissed from Beej’s favorite toy. She shot her husband a look that said it all, the this-is-your-mistake-so-now-fix-it glare, as she carried Coco into the dining area and placed her into her kennel. “This won’t be for long,” she promised the dog, mentally crossing her fingers.

  Holding B.J., Jack opened the door before his father could hit the doorbell. As Jack had said, both Jannelle, looking pissed off, and J.J.—Jon Junior, his I’m-cool-to-be-here expression neatly in place—were with Jonathan. They were all good looking, some Scandinavian ancestor having handed out tall bodies, blond hair, high cheekbones, and varying shades of blue eyes.

  “Oh, honey,” Jack’s father greeted Cissy, arms outstretched. He crushed her to him.

  “I’m okay,” Cissy said, barely able to breathe.

  Jonathan’s face was remarkably unlined for someone near sixty, and he still had lots of hair, an ash blond color just beginning to gray. He was fit, tanned, and could pass for fifteen years younger than he was, which of course he loved. Cissy guessed that only the ages of his children prevented him from stretching the truth about the years.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, releasing her, his eyebrows pulled together, sadness evident in those Nordic eyes.

  “It’s a bummer,” J.J. said.

  Jannelle rolled her eyes at her brother’s phraseology. “Dad thought we should come by and, you know, offer support, bond as a family, all that…sensitive bullshit.” She plopped into a side chair and crossed her long legs.

  “Don’t go there,” Jack warned.

  “Jannie, come on.” Their father was obviously irritated. To Cissy, he said, “What Jannelle said is essentially right, without the editorial comments. I know this is tough…so here we are.”

  “One big happy family,” Jannelle chimed in. “Hey, when is that divorce final?”

  “Enough!” The lines around Jonathan’s mouth showed white in irritation.

  “I knew this was a mistake,” J.J. muttered, shoving a hand through hair that was long enough to curl over the collar of his leather jacket. He always dressed in what Cissy thought of as casual cool—trendy, but never too upscale. She really didn’t know him, didn’t much want to; another Holt male to avoid. Then she caught a glimpse of Jannelle rolling her eyes again. So, okay, she needed to avoid all Holts, regardless of gender.

  “There’s Grandpa’s boy!” Jonathan motioned for Jack to step a little closer so he could get closer to his grandson. “How’re you, Bryan Jack?” he asked, but when he attempted to pry Beej from Jack’s arms, their son, independent kid that he was, said loud and clear, “No, Poppa!”

  “Ugh,” Jannelle muttered under her breath.

  J.J., looking uncomfortable, sat on the ottoman and stared at the nonexistent fire.

  Yeah, this was a great idea, Cissy thought wearily. But she was stuck with it. “So, does anyone want anything? Coffee? A beer?” She glanced at Jack for help.

  “Actually, we thought we’d take you out to dinner. Something simple. How about a place that deals with kids?”

  “Are you talking McDonald’s?” Jannelle asked, horrified. “Really, Dad, I’ll pass.” She looked pointedly at the watch glittering around her wrist.

  Though she wanted to tell them all to just get out and leave her alone, Cissy bit back the urge, saying instead, “You know, that’s really nice, but I thought Beej and I, we’d just kind of camp out here tonight.” She forced a smile at Jonathan, who had been so instrumental in her hooking up with Jack in the first place. “Thanks.�
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  “Good enough for me.” Jannelle shot to her feet.

  “Me too.” J.J. wasn’t one for gooey family togetherness.

  The older man was disappointed. “Come on now, we’re all here anyway.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” Jack walked to the window. “Jannelle, that’s your Mercedes. So, you drove?”

  “Now look who’s the detective.”

  “Jesus, Jannelle, stuff it,” J.J. said, irked.

  “Why don’t you and J.J. take off? If Dad wants to stay, I’ll drive him home in a while.”

  “Great idea!” Jannelle slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder, then made fast tracks, her high heels clicking over the hardwood as if she were afraid someone would change his mind. J.J., who so recently wanted to shut her up, was only one step behind, zipping his jacket and muttering phrases like “Hang in there. Things’ll get better. At least she didn’t suffer.” The usual platitudes that Cissy already found tiresome. Jannelle said only, “Let me know about the funeral,” and was out the door. A few seconds later a powerful engine sparked to life, and the Mercedes reversed, then tore down the street.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan said, and B.J., as if sensing his grandfather’s sadness, finally allowed the older man to extract him from his father’s arms.

  “Hi, Poppa,” he said and patted the older man on his shoulder.

  “Well, hi, yourself. So, the old man’s okay, huh?”

  Cissy saw Jack’s father’s tenderness where B.J. was concerned and felt her heart warm a bit. She tried to forgive him the ancient history of cheating on his wife, though she couldn’t help thinking, as she walked into the dining area, if Jonathan had remained faithful, maybe Jack wouldn’t have crossed that same line.

  Jack’s inability to stay faithful is Jack’s problem. Not his father’s. Not yours.

  She let the little dog out of her kennel, and after a few sharp barks, Coco gave up the fight and hopped onto the chair Jannelle had so recently vacated.

  “Why don’t you stay here with Cissy and Beej, and I’ll go get takeout,” Jack suggested. “There’s a great Thai place five minutes away.” He glanced at his wife. “Okay with you?”

  “Why not?” Cissy capitulated. “You know me. I just roll with the punches.”

  Jack snorted as he walked to the hall tree and snatched up his coat. “That’s you, Little Miss Mellow.”

  Walking unnoticed into the assisted-living area of the care facility proved relatively easy. Elyse posed as a woman working with a local church group, and, wearing the same kind of disguise at which Marla had sneered, she’d visited the place enough during the past few weeks. There was a security code, of course, but it was simple enough to watch another visitor punch it in, then do the same thing herself. The front desk was usually manned by a woman who had duties that extended little beyond sitting in the same chair hour after hour. After five, the staff really thinned out as the office workers went home, and the phone system was switched to an answering service which networked with the adjacent brick building where the nursing-home patients required round-the-clock care and the staff was more vigilant.

  The security cameras were no issue, and Elyse toddled slowly down the hall, saying “Hello” and “God bless you” to the few residents she met. She could feel her adrenaline spurt through her veins in anticipation.

  This was it.

  Her final visit to the retard.

  Rory Amhurst. Marla’s brother. A healthy child who as a toddler had been in a horrible car accident, run over by his own mother. The result had been permanent brain damage.

  Surely Marla, who had been in the car with Rory when her mother had dashed back into the house, leaving the car idling for just those few moments, hadn’t known what would happen. Rory, a toddler, had screamed, and older Marla had unlatched him from his seat restraint, let him outside, and closed the car door. When their mother, Victoria, returned, she didn’t notice the boy wasn’t in the backseat. She jammed the car in reverse and hit the gas, running over her own child as he crouched behind the car, presumably to look at an ant or some other insect on the pavement. Marla, a child herself, couldn’t have had any idea of the consequences of her actions that day. Right? Certainly she wasn’t born evil. That was a fiction, wasn’t it? Born evil?

  Or was she?

  Not that it mattered.

  Now Marla wanted Rory dead.

  And Elyse was her messenger.

  Rory’s room was at the end of the hallway. As Elyse entered, she found him sitting up, staring at the television where a rerun of South Park was playing.

  “Hi, Rory,” she said sweetly. “You remember me, don’t you? Mrs. Smith?”

  He nodded, grinning, his eyes vacant, his head still a little misshapen. It was too bad, Elyse thought as she pulled the batch of brownies she’d made from her oversized purse with gloved hands. “Do you mind if I turn up the television? My hearing, you know.” She upped the volume to hide any sounds he might make, then grabbed a can of soda from her purse and, while he was watching television, added enough Valium to drop a racehorse.

  She handed him the can. He smiled gratefully and drank it down.

  Elyse felt a twinge of conscience as he swallowed. He really was an innocent and, as far as Elyse knew, had never hurt anyone.

  But Marla had been insistent.

  “That basket case has got to go, you understand me!” she’d said vehemently. “Do you know how much money it costs to keep him in that overpriced institution? All his physical therapy and speech therapy and God only knows what else. It’s a wasted life. Wasted. It’ll be a mercy killing. Who would want to live that way?”

  “But he seems happy,” Elyse had argued, and Marla had pinned her with those furious green eyes.

  “Because he doesn’t know any better.”

  “Then what does it hurt?”

  “Are you going to do this, or do I have to?” Marla had snapped. “I will, you know. Without a second thought. He won’t feel much pain…. Just give him the shellfish: disguise it in a brownie.”

  “Shellfish?”

  “He’s violently allergic. He’ll go into anaphylactic shock, but the Valium should knock him out. Just cover the whole thing in lots of chocolate frosting. He’ll eat it, trust me.”

  Elyse had been skeptical as she’d baked the batch, then tasted one. The shellfish taste was masked well enough. The brownies tasted “off,” but not necessarily bad, and when slathered in goopy chocolate frosting were pretty decent.

  “Here ya go, Rory,” Elyse said, looking over her shoulder, hoping none of the aides accidentally wandered in. Rory had a remote-alert device, a call button he wore around his neck that, if pressed, would notify the staff that he needed help. She couldn’t take a chance that he would use it. “Here, let’s put that on the dresser. You wouldn’t want to mess it up with all that chocolate.”

  He looked up at her with trusting eyes and bit into the brownie. Would it work? There should be enough crab oil and ground shrimp to start a seizure and cause his throat to swell. If he ingested it. But that didn’t seem to be a problem. He ate one brownie and was reaching for another when it hit. He started convulsing, and Elyse hurriedly took his call button and put it in the bathroom. Then she carefully wrapped up the rest of the brownies and returned them to her purse. Fear and adrenaline zinged through her bloodstream. Her mind spun crazily as she realized how close she was to being found out, to being caught in the act of murder, to losing everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.

  Rory, gulping and gasping, eyes rolling upward, exposing only whites, slid to the floor, his seizure wild. Elyse pushed his wheelchair and rolling table away from him so that his flailing arms and legs wouldn’t strike the metal, banging and creating a racket louder than the strangled noises coming from his mouth. Again she adjusted the volume of the television upward. She stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. Strolling slowly, she had to fight the urge to run like crazy. Instead she smiled casually at passing residents as she
headed toward the double doors at reception. The corridor was so damn long! It seemed to have lengthened to the size of a football field while she was in Rory’s little studio.

  She passed by other rooms where elderly wheelchair-bound residents sat like automatons in front of televisions. A nurse spied her and smiled, and Elyse, behind her thick glasses and tinted contact lenses, smiled back and nodded. The fat suit was uncomfortable, the makeup making her sweat even more than her own sense of panic. It was all she could do to keep from looking over her shoulder. Crossing her fingers, she hoped the stupid floor nurse wasn’t going to Rory’s room.

  At the main desk, an aide was arguing with a woman in a wheelchair who was refusing to return to her room.

  Elyse slipped by. The aide glanced up briefly, catching her eye before Elyse could toddle through the double doors to the vestibule. She punched in the code to open the exterior doors.

  Nothing happened.

  What?

  She tried again, her heart racing, and this time, thankfully, a green light and buzzer told her she had fifteen seconds to shove open the door.

  Now to make good her escape.

  Pulse pounding in her eardrums, she headed for her car. Slowly. Painstakingly. As if fear weren’t propelling her to run.

  Just outside the door Elyse clicked the remote to unlock the car, but she heard the sounds of panic forming inside the building.

  Running feet. Shouts.

  They’d discovered Rory.

  Too soon!

  This was way too soon!

  Fingers shaking, she ran to the car, pulling her purse to her chest. In her haste, she dropped the key ring, and it fell between the front seats.

  Oh God.

  It was too tight to get her hand through the crack.

  Damn!

  The keys were there—she just couldn’t reach them.

  She was trapped!

  She couldn’t go back inside. She had to flee. Now. As soon as they revived Rory or called an ambulance…it would be over. Think, Elyse, think. Heart pounding frantically, insides quivering, she tried to edge her hand down through the tight crevice again and ended up scraping her knuckles and breaking a nail. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. Blood bloomed on the back of her fingers, and her skin burned from the scrape.